Death of a Scholar (32 page)

‘But I do not have twenty marks,’ snapped William. ‘And you should accept some of the blame anyway. If you were not such an ignorant pig, I would not have felt obliged to put pen to parchment in the first place.’

‘Do not quarrel,’ said Clippesby, releasing Ethel so she flapped towards them. Both Gilbertine and Franciscan recoiled in alarm. ‘It is unbecoming for men in holy orders.’

‘And
you
should resign, too,’ snarled Thelnetham. ‘Indeed, you
all
should. You are either bigots, lunatics, gluttons, warlocks or heretics. Our founder must be turning in his grave!’

‘He will turn even faster if you do not catch this blackmailer,’ said Langelee to Michael. ‘What did you discover in St Mary the Great last night?’

Michael launched into the tale that he and Cynric had devised, which made Bartholomew look away, lest his more observant colleagues should detect his unease with it. ‘So the rogue has claimed at least four victims,’ he concluded. ‘Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf. Not to mention trying to extort money from us and stealing our hutch.’

‘Then you must do all you can to catch him, Brother,’ said William. ‘Because I am not giving Hemmysby’s killer twenty marks. Even if I did have it to spare.’

The discussion and Clippesby’s sojourn in the henhouse meant they were late, so Langelee led his procession up St Michael’s Lane at a rapid clip. They were just crossing the High Street when they ran into a group of men who, judging from their bleary eyes and ale-scented breath, had spent the night in a tavern. They were led by Hugo Potmoor, and comprised an odd combination of his father’s henchmen and matriculands. Bartholomew was dismayed to see Richard among them. His nephew’s was not the only presence to excite comment.

‘There is Surgeon Holm,’ remarked Michael. ‘What is he doing in such unsavoury company?’

‘He and Hugo are friends,’ explained Clippesby. ‘The sparrows tell me they are always together, and are frequent visitors to each other’s homes.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Holm is a villain, so of course he gravitates towards men of similar mien.’ He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant glance. ‘And that includes your nephew, I am sorry to say.’

‘Richard is more fool than villain,’ said Langelee. ‘Tell him to go home before anyone sees him, Bartholomew. He will bring disgrace to your family if he is spotted cavorting with this horde.’

Chagrined that even the hedonistic Master deplored his kinsman’s choice of company, Bartholomew went to do as he was told.

‘I suppose you have come to recommend that I find myself some more suitable friends,’ slurred Richard. ‘Well, I am sorry, but I like these. So you can mind your own business.’

Bartholomew stared at him, wondering what had happened to the likeable, ebullient boy he had known and loved. Sensing a quarrel in the making, Richard’s companions came to form a semicircle at his back, sniggering and jostling.

‘Actually, I came to pass on Langelee’s advice,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘That if you must act like a halfwit, do it somewhere other than the High Street.’

‘I am touched by your concern.’ Richard waved a careless hand, which caused him to stagger. ‘But it is too early for anyone important to be awake, so you and Langelee need not worry.’

Hugo flung a meaty arm around his shoulders. ‘On the contrary, your reputation will be enhanced. After all, Holm and I are influential members of the Guild of Saints.’

Richard smiled challengingly at his uncle. ‘You will soon get used to me living here again. And I shall be your equal soon – a University Fellow, no less. Now I see what Cambridge has to offer, I wonder why I ever left.’

‘The Brazen George awaits!’ cried Hugo suddenly. ‘And I have a fierce thirst. The last one through the door buys the first drinks.’

There was a concerted lurch towards the tavern, where their braying laughter and drunken hoots drew disapproving glances from scholars and townsmen alike. Richard lost his footing as he tried to join them, and Holm and Hugo made heavy work of pulling him to his feet. Hating to see him make such a spectacle of himself, Bartholomew went to help.

‘Perhaps you should just go home, Richard,’ he said quietly. ‘More ale will—’

‘Do not tell him what to do,’ interrupted Hugo belligerently. ‘It is a good thing you raised my father from the dead or I would trounce you for your audacity.’

‘Trounce him anyway,’ suggested Holm. ‘It might make him less attractive to my wife.’

Hugo laughed. ‘It will take a lot more than a battered face to lop
your
cuckold’s horns! Just as it will take more than death to lop those of a certain deceased Secretary.’

Holm blinked as he struggled to understand. ‘Do you mean Olivia Knyt? She had a lover?’

‘Yes – my father. She bought bryony root to cure her husband’s fever, but she used it improperly and he died. Which means she is now free to cavort openly, and even remarry if she chooses. Bryony. It sounds so innocent and yet … Perhaps you should buy some for Julitta, Will. That would put an end to her brazen wantonness.’

Bartholomew’s blood ran cold. ‘You would not—’

‘Julitta is not wanton,’ said Holm, eyes narrowed. ‘She loves me, and me alone. Come, Hugo. We have better things to do than bandy words with the man who swoons over my wife.’

They sauntered away arm in arm, leaving Bartholomew staring after them in mute horror, appalled that his affection for Julitta might have put her in danger. Yet Holm had seemed equally averse to poisoning his wife. Did that mean he
did
harbour some feeling for her, and she was safe from harm? But what if—

‘You should stay away from them,’ advised Richard. Bartholomew had forgotten him, and jumped when his nephew spoke at his side. ‘Especially Hugo. I enjoy his company, but he can be … disagreeable to people he dislikes.’

‘I am sure he can. He takes after his father.’

‘You should not have done it.’ Richard grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder to steady himself. ‘Raised Potmoor from the dead, I mean. It has turned a lot of people against you. You should have kept your smelling salts in your bag. You did not have to use them on him.’

‘Of course I did! I took an oath to help those in need.’

‘An oath,’ mused Richard. ‘I am good at finding loopholes in those, and it is obvious that you should renounce that one. I shall want something in return, of course.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to point out that he had no intention of reneging on a vow, especially one in which he believed with all his heart.

‘That you stay out of my affairs. I know what I am doing with … I know what I am doing.’

‘Doing with whom?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Weasenham’s wife? If he catches you, he will destroy you with gossip. He has done it before.’

‘If he tries, I will sue him. There is no more effective weapon than the law, and I am an expert at wielding it. And I am serious about what I said – do not meddle in my affairs.’

Richard and his friends were not the only ones worse for wear after a night of drinking. So was Noll Verius, who had collapsed in a heap in St Michael’s churchyard. Isnard was with him, but although the bargeman was adept at compensating for the loss of his leg, carrying inebriated ditchers was well past what he could manage.

‘Help me, Doctor,’ he called. ‘His wife will be worried, and I would not have her distressed.’

Bartholomew should have refused and gone to church, but he liked Ylaria, so he obligingly hefted Verius across his shoulder.

‘You are stronger than you look,’ remarked Isnard, swinging along beside him on his crutches. ‘I suppose you are used to lugging your colleagues around after Michaelhouse feasts.’

Bartholomew smiled ruefully, thinking it had been a long time since the College had been able to treat its members to that sort of extravagance. He wondered whether it ever would again.

‘Will you tell Brother Michael that me and the other basses had nothing to do with the trouble at the Laughing Pig last night?’ Isnard went on. ‘I should not like him to think badly of us. Or worse, tell us off in front of the whole choir.’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘We were sitting quietly, bemoaning the fact that the Guild of Saints will no longer help needy widows, when your nephew and his boisterous friends arrived. We ignored them at first, but then we heard Richard say that
he
had voted against the widows. Well, tempers flared and punches were thrown, although not at him, more is the pity.’

‘Agatha told me about Richard’s role in that ballot. I will speak to him.’

‘Do not bother. He will not listen, and you will be wasting your breath. And do not worry your sister with it either. She is a good lady, and must be heartbroken to see what he has become.’

They arrived at Verius’s house, where it took both of them to manoeuvre the ditcher through the door. Ylaria was relieved to have her husband home, and clucked around him like a mother hen.

‘He was celebrating,’ explained Isnard. ‘Brother Michael has given him the solo in the
Recordare
. Michael has a good ear for an angelic voice, which is why he lets me lead the basses, of course. He appreciates my rich tones.’

Bartholomew replaced the filthy bandage on the ditcher’s thumb and left, but he had not taken many steps before he was hailed by Rougham, who fell into step at his side. The Gonville
medicus
was in a foul mood, because the Guild of Saints had declined to make its usual yearly donation towards his College chapel. Bartholomew, eager for an excuse to escape the tirade, was glad when he spotted Eyer on the other side of the road.

Rougham followed him to where Eyer was talking to a squat, fierce-faced physician named Nigellus de Thornton, who practised in the nearby village of Barnwell. Nigellus was livid, and the apothecary was trying to calm him.

‘Have
you
heard?’ Nigellus snarled, making Bartholomew and Rougham flinch at the fury in his voice. ‘What Winwick Hall has done to me?’

‘No,’ replied Rougham. ‘But I warrant it will be something nasty. The Keeper of the Privy Seal should have foisted his vile foundation on Oxford instead. We do not want it here.’

‘Illesy and his Fellows have rejected my application to teach,’ raged Nigellus. ‘How
dare
they! I was a physician before most of them were born, and they should have welcomed me with open arms. But they say they have Lawrence, and there is no need for another
medicus
.’

‘You should have asked me before submitting yourself to their insults,’ said Rougham. ‘I could have told you that they are only interested in recruiting lawyers. Lawrence is unusual in that he specialises in both subjects, but—’

‘They should have made an exception for me,’ blazed Nigellus. ‘But I will show them! I have been offered a place in Zachary Hostel, and they will
kick
themselves when they see how many students I attract.’

‘He was not rejected because he cannot teach law,’ confided Eyer, when the enraged
medicus
had stamped away, ‘but because he is not rich enough. Winwick only wants men who can make massive donations to its coffers. I considered applying myself until I realised how much it costs.’

‘I imagine you can afford it.’ Rougham glanced pointedly towards Eyer’s handsome shop. ‘You are a member of the Guild of Saints, and they do not admit paupers.’

Eyer winced. ‘Yes, but I am thinking of resigning. I would rather my hard-earned shillings went to relieve beggars, orphans and widows, not to buy fancy cutlery for Winwick Hall.’

‘I do not see you as an educator anyway,’ said Rougham. ‘You told me only yesterday that you dislike most of the young men who are applying for places to study here this year.’

‘I would make a very good scholar,’ objected Eyer indignantly. ‘Much better than most of the masters I studied under.’

‘You had more than one?’ asked Rougham, surprised. ‘I thought apprentices in the remedy business tended to stick with the same mentor for the whole of their training.’

‘I am different,’ retorted Eyer, the shortness of his response making it clear that the discussion was over. Bartholomew was puzzled – most craftsmen were usually only too happy to talk about the painstaking process of learning their trade. Then Eyer forced a smile. ‘Are you hungry? I am having crispy fried earthworms and seagull gizzards for breakfast. You are welcome to join me.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance, wondering if he seriously expected such an invitation to be accepted. The earnest expression on Eyer’s face made it abundantly clear that he did.

‘I am obliged to break my fast in College,’ said Rougham, backing away quickly. ‘Attendance at meals is obligatory in Gonville, so you must excuse me.’

‘It is obligatory in Michaelhouse, too,’ said Bartholomew, when Eyer turned hopeful eyes in his direction. He found himself thinking that even Agatha did not serve such unappealing fare, although that might change if the Stanton Hutch was not recovered.

Eyer sighed. ‘Pity. Some intelligent company would have been welcome. But I had better return to my shop before my apprentices set it alight. They are lively lads and I love them dearly, but they are inclined to be wild.’

‘So are my new students,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘Aungel told you about their foolish experiments with urine, I believe?’

Eyer nodded. ‘Urine
and
your medical supplies, although you have not come to me to replenish your stocks. Have you taken your custom elsewhere?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Of course not.’

Eyer tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Your personal finances are none of my concern, but you cannot earn much from your paupers. If you ever find yourself short of the necessaries, I hope you will let me know. I am more than happy to defer payment. I would not extend this sort of credit to the other physicians, but I trust you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although he wondered if Eyer would have made the offer if he had known that any bills incurred were unlikely to be paid before Christmas. Before he could say more, Cynric arrived with a summons from a patient who lived in the north of the city.

‘Do not forget,’ said Eyer, as the physician turned to leave. ‘I will not see the poor suffer for want of remedies, and you are always welcome in my shop – if not to dine, then for decent conversation and a chance to relax.’