Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘Is it true?’ asked Michael of Heytesbury, tilting his goblet and inspecting the drink inside doubtfully. ‘Do Oxford scholars really drink this?’

Heytesbury drained his cup in a single swallow. ‘It is a brew the King is said to like.’

‘Then no wonder the country is in such a state,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am surprised the man has any wits at all, if he regularly imbibes this poison. What is your opinion, as a medical man, Matt?’

Bartholomew shrugged, reluctant to engage in treasonous talk with Heytesbury present. For all Bartholomew knew, Heytesbury could be the kind of man to report any rebellious sentiments among Cambridge scholars to the King’s spies, and Bartholomew had no intention of losing his Fellowship for agreeing that any man who regularly drank the potion Richard had provided was not fit to be in control of a plough, let alone a country. He was surprised that Michael was not similarly cautious.

‘I always knew Cambridge men had weak stomachs,’ said Richard, tossing back the contents of his goblet and then fighting not to splutter. ‘We are made of sterner stuff in Oxford.’

‘We will see about that,’ said Michael, downing the remains of his own cup and then pushing it across the table to be refilled. ‘Will you accept my challenge?’

‘He will not,’ said Edith firmly. ‘This is supposed to be a pleasant family meal, not some academic drinking game. I do not want either of you face down on your trenchers or ruining the occasion for the rest of us by being sick on the table.’ She snatched up the flask and rammed the stopper into it so hard that Bartholomew wondered whether Richard would ever be able to prise it out.

‘You are quite right, madam,’ said Heytesbury smoothly. ‘I drink little myself and do not enjoy the company of those who lose their wits to wine and have no sensible conversation to offer.’

Bartholomew looked at Heytesbury’s unsteady hands and the way the man was able to swallow Richard’s poison as though it were water, and was not so sure. The fact that Richard claimed the first thing he had done when he had met Heytesbury was to visit the Laughing Pig indicated that Heytesbury was not being entirely honest. Bartholomew watched as the Oxford man took a small package from his scrip, pulled a piece of resin from it and stuffed it in his mouth. He saw Bartholomew watching curiously and slipped the packet across the table for him to see.

‘Gum mastic,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the yellow substance closely. ‘This has only recently come to England, but it has many uses. For example, it makes an excellent glue and is a powerful breath freshener.’

‘Do not tell the students this,’ said Michael, taking it from Bartholomew and regarding it without much interest, before flinging it back to Heytesbury, ‘or they will all be swallowing it, and we shall never be able to prove that they have been drinking.’

Heytesbury caught the package deftly, and changed the subject. ‘Tell me about Cambridge. Is it a pretty town?’

Michael gave Bartholomew a hefty kick under the table to attract his attention, then winked, letting the physician know that Heytesbury’s untruthful statement about this being his first visit to Cambridge had not gone unnoticed. Bartholomew supposed that Heytesbury had no reason to know that the physician had personally seen him meeting scholars from Bene’t College in a place where he assumed – wrongly, as it happened – they would not be observed. Michael’s face was unreadable when Heytesbury looked at him, and Bartholomew saw the monk was content to let Heytesbury continue in his belief.

‘Cambridge is God’s own kingdom on Earth,’ announced Stanmore warmly. ‘I have lived here all my life, and I have never seen a lovelier spot.’

‘Have you travelled much, then?’ asked Heytesbury with polite interest.

Stanmore nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. I have been several times to Saffron Walden – a good fifteen miles to the south – and once I went to London. But neither compares to Cambridge.’

‘I see,’ said Heytesbury. ‘Have you ever been to Oxford?’

Stanmore shook his head, barely able to suppress a shudder. ‘I was not pleased that Richard decided to study there when we have a perfectly good University here, but he was insistent. Still, I suppose his choice was a wise one, given that he is now a lawyer, rather than a physician.’

‘At least I will make my fortune,’ said Richard. His face was flushed and sweaty from drinking too much wine in a stuffy room. He began to remove his tunic, revealing an intricately embroidered shirt underneath with huge puffed sleeves. ‘I would have been doomed to poverty had I pursued a medical career. Lord, it is hot in here!’

‘Move away from the fire, then,’ suggested Stanmore, a little acidly. ‘You would not be so warm if you allowed some of the heat to travel to other people.’

‘What,’ demanded Michael suddenly and loudly, ‘are those?’ Everyone followed his eyes to the front of Richard’s newly revealed shirt.

‘They are called buttons,’ said Richard haughtily, glancing down at them. ‘Why?’

‘I know what they are,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I have never before seen such monstrous examples of them – at least, not on a man. I understand the King’s mother goes in for that kind of thing.’

Bartholomew could see his point. Buttons had only recently gained popularity, because it was said that the King approved of them. Most were made of bone or wood and were small, unobtrusive discs that performed the function of holding two pieces of material together without the need for elaborate systems of laces. Richard’s buttons, however, were huge, almost the size of mushrooms, and were evidently made of some precious metal.

‘They are the height of fashion,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Do you know nothing of the King’s court?’

‘They are ugly,’ said Stanmore, eyeing them critically. ‘But I doubt this modern liking for buttons will last long. They will never take the place of laces.’

‘You should be careful if you ever need to run,’ Bartholomew advised his nephew with a smile. ‘If one of those things bounces upwards, it will take your teeth out.’

Michael regarded Richard with arched eyebrows. ‘Do all Oxford scholars adorn themselves with these “buttons”, as well as drink liquid that would be better employed in scouring drains? Or is it just confined to those people who study law?’

Richard bristled at the insult, but Heytesbury laid a soothing hand on his arm as he smiled at Michael. ‘It is a passing phase, no more. You will find no buttons on me. I would not have expected you to negotiate with me if I had been covered in lumps of metal.’

‘Speaking of our agreement, perhaps we should draw it up tomorrow,’ suggested Michael hopefully. ‘I am sure you need to be back in Oxford for the beginning of the new term, and if we finalise matters now, you will not be obliged to make a second journey.’

Heytesbury’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Patience, Brother. There is no hurry. I will stay here for a while, and visit your halls and Colleges to see how they compare to my own. There may be things for me to learn.’

The expression on his face made Bartholomew suspect that he had serious doubts on that score.

‘I am sure the Chancellor would be delighted if you offered to lecture here,’ suggested Richard. He turned eagerly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Master Heytesbury is one of the leading authorities on the theory of nominalism.’

‘I am not sure that is a good idea,’ said Michael hastily. ‘For some unaccountable reason, the religious Orders here have taken that debate very much to heart recently. I do not want a full-scale riot with the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines on one side and the Dominicans, Austins and Benedictines on the other.’