Susanna Gregory - A Deadly Brew

‘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.’

‘Your father will make a full recovery,’ said Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Edward. ‘His malady was a simple case of too many lemons.’

‘Lemons?’ queried Deschalers, perching on the edge of the table and tossing back his cloak to reveal the elegant cut of his clothes. ‘The lemons I sold him?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are a bitter fruit unless properly prepared.’

‘Ah,’ said Deschalers as a faint smile touched his handsome features. He needed to say no more because the implication was clear: anyone of gentle birth would have known how to prepare the costly fruits and Mortimer had inadvertently exposed his humble origins by his ignorance. He exchanged a superior glance with Cheney.

‘We thought it might be a case of this winter fever that has struck at the river people,’ he said, addressing Bartholomew again. ‘One of my servants was stricken yesterday.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I feel sure this fever has something to do with the well in Water Lane. Master Mortimer’s house has its own well.’

Deschalers was patently uninterested in issues of health. ‘Then can we expect Mortimer at the meeting of the town council next week, when we discuss our building plans for the town?’ he asked.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I do not see why not.’

‘Good,’ said Cheney. ‘We need him to help us finance the continuing construction of Bene’t’s.’

‘The College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary,’ corrected Deschalers, giving Cambridge’s newest College its full and official title. Most people referred to it simply as Bene’t’s because it was attached to St Bene’t’s Church by a slender corridor, like a cloister. ‘The only University College to be founded by townspeople and paid for with town money,’ the grocer added with an odd mixture of pride and smugness.

‘It is a fine building,’ said Bartholomew politely.

‘It will be the best College in Cambridge given time,’ claimed Deschalers, ‘and will be a noble memorial to the men of the Guild of Corpus Christi and the Guild of St Mary who endowed it.’

As they had been speaking, Deschalers’s eyes had been roving around the hall, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that the grocer was looking for someone more influential with whom to talk. Bartholomew watched as Deschalers suddenly became aware of the intense conversation between Oswald Stanmore and the Master of Gonville Hall. The grocer’s eyes narrowed. He nodded a brusque farewell to Bartholomew and was away towards them, weaving his way between the revellers and expertly avoiding slopping, wine-filled goblets and hurled pieces of food. Cheney hastened after him, but lacked his colleague’s agility, and his progress was marked by a profusion of apologies and spillages. Edward escaped from them with relief and went to talk to some of Valence Marie’s students.

‘Look at James Grene!’ exclaimed Langelee, suddenly grabbing Bartholomew’s arm with a hot, heavy hand and pointing at the high table. ‘Now there is the face of a man who believes he has been cheated out of his rightful position as Master of Valence Marie!’

Bartholomew looked to where Langelee indicated and saw what he meant. While all around him his colleagues threw themselves into the spirit of the occasion with laughter and good humour, Grene leaned back moodily in his chair on the dais. Bartholomew saw him take a hefty gulp of wine, noted the redness of his face and drew the conclusion that while Grene might not be enjoying the festivities, he was certainly availing himself of the refreshments provided by his victorious rival.

Michael roared with laughter. ‘I made a wise decision to stay away from Valence Marie, my friends!’ he shouted, raising his cup in a slopping toast. ‘Here is to Michaelhouse!’

‘Michaelhouse!’ yelled Langelee in reply, standing to crash his own brimming goblet into Brother Michael’s.

‘Have a care!’ warned Bartholomew, looking to where several other guests were eyeing them with disapproval. ‘We should not risk offending members of Valence Marie in their own hall.’