Susanna Gregory - A Deadly Brew

‘Yes, choose,’ said Katherine. She smiled nervously at her husband and then addressed Bartholomew. ‘But you will not pay for them; they will be a gift to compensate you for the fact that you have missed the installation in order to attend Constantine.’

‘What?’ gasped Mortimer in shock, attempting to raise himself from his pillow. Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but Katherine was not interested in interruptions. It was unusual to see the shy, diffident woman cross her husband and Bartholomew wondered whether his claim to have been brushed by death had rendered him suddenly more human and fallible in her eyes.

‘Doctor Bartholomew could have declined to come to you, Constantine,’ she reasoned. ‘You are not his patient and he will be the only Fellow in the University to miss the grand installation that the town has been discussing for weeks.’

‘Except for Father Philius,’ grunted Mortimer. ‘You told me he is ill, too.’

‘And you should remember that Father Philius would not have answered your summons until the festivities were over,’ said Katherine. ‘Now, try these green gloves, Doctor. They are the best ones here and suitably fine for a man of your profession.’

‘They make his hands look leprous,’ said Mortimer, eyeing them critically. ‘Give him the black pair. Black goes with anything and you would not want him to don green gloves with that red robe.’

‘True enough,’ admitted Katherine. ‘And the black ones are harder wearing than the green. Your sister tells me you are careless with clothes and so you should probably take a more durable pair. Do they fit?’

‘They fit perfectly,’ announced Mortimer, as though Bartholomew was incapable of answering, leaning forward to tug at one of the fingers experimentally. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I feel terribly sleepy. Next time you come to me, Bartholomew, I shall expect to be examined with hands as soft and warm as a baby’s, not rough, red and frozen like a peasant’s.’

Bartholomew smiled and made his farewells to the baker. He ushered the assembled people — and dogs — out of the bedchamber, assuring them that their master needed only rest to make a full recovery, although not all of them seemed overjoyed by the news that death had been cheated of its prey.

Katherine saw him to the door and handed him two silver pennies. ‘It was kind of you to come when you should be at the installation.’

‘So should you,’ said Bartholomew, certain that Valence Marie would not risk offending one of the most powerful merchants in the town and his wife by not issuing them an invitation.

Katherine gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I am tempted to go now since it seems the reason I am to be denied is my husband’s greed. But I am sure word has gone out that Constantine is gravely ill, and I do not want to appear uncaring. When he wakes in the morning, he will be telling folk how you snatched him from the jaws of death. My son Edward is the same. While the rest of us suffer simple rheums, he has a terrible fever; a tiny cut is a life-threatening wound with him.’

‘Not everyone bears discomfort stoically,’ said Bartholomew carefully, not wanting to tell her that he considered Mortimer’s summons a complete waste of his time, because the baker would have recovered perfectly well after a good night of sleep and a day of careful eating anyway.

Katherine sighed again, but then became businesslike. She took Bartholomew’s elegantly clad hand and smiled. ‘I am keeping you from the celebrations while I run on. Thank you again, and enjoy the festivities.’

For the third time that day, Bartholomew turned towards the Hall of Valence Marie. He glanced down at his best gown and saw that it was liberally splattered with mud, while water dripped from the hem. His boots were filthy, and kneeling on the rush-strewn floor of St Bernard’s Hostel to tend Armel had caused fragments of the dried plants to adhere to them. In short, he looked scruffy, impoverished and disreputable. He wondered if the Valence Marie porter would even let him in, or whether he should obey his strong inclination to head home, perhaps to sit by the fire in the kitchen and watch the rain teem past the window. He hesitated, seriously considering returning to Michaelhouse.

But, like it or not, he was committed to attending at least part of the installation ceremony, and he could not, in all conscience, use Mortimer’s ailment as an excuse to stay away for much longer. He would be missed, if not by the Fellows and Master-Elect of Valence Marie, then by his own colleagues at Michaelhouse, some of whom would claim that his absence was a dereliction of duty and that he had done disservice to Michaelhouse’s good relations with another College.

Stamping his feet to try to dislodge some of the mud from his boots, he stepped through the sturdy front gates of Valence Marie and prepared to be admonished by the condescending porter for his bedraggled appearance on such an auspicious day. The porter, however, seemed to have gone off duty and a student was performing the role of doorman. He was considerably more polite than the porter had been, and cheerfully helped Bartholomew to brush the worst of the mud from his clothes.

By the time the physician had been conducted to Valence Marie’s splendid hall, the ceremony was virtually over. He stood at the back, leaning against the wall, and remembered the events of the previous summer when, had it not been for the timely intervention of Michael, he would have lost his life in that very room. Since then, the hall had been redecorated on the orders of its incoming Master, and new tapestries in brightly coloured wools adorned the walls. Above his head, the wooden musicians’ gallery had been rebuilt and boasted some of the finest carvings in Cambridge. A group of students was there now, singing to occupy the guests while the Fellows of the Hall of Valence Marie lined up to sign the writ that would make legal the installation of Thomas Bingham as Master.

When the last Fellow had shuffled his way forward and added his name to the official parchment, the singing stopped and Bingham began to make his speech. In Bingham’s position, Bartholomew would have been brief. The election had not been unanimous and ill-feelings might be resurrected if Bingham spoke at too great a length about his victory over his rival and his plans for the College. The new Master, however, had a good deal to say on a wide range of matters and, in the body of the hall, the assembly became restless. The language of the University was Latin, and while Bartholomew and the other scholars were fluent, few of the guests from the town would understand all of Bingham’s words. Despite the chilly weather, the hall, filled to overflowing with people, began to grow stuffy and soon became uncomfortable.

Bartholomew edged nearer the door, where a welcome draught wafted in from outside, and thought about the events of the day. He wondered about the three bottles of wine, still wrapped in his hat and left in the porter’s lodge for safety. Had a townsperson deliberately sold the students poisoned claret? Michael clearly thought so, but Bartholomew had his doubts. He was certain the Franciscan novices would not have been behaving sufficiently rowdily to warrant someone wanting them dead — none of them had been drunk when he and Michael had arrived and they seemed a tame group to him, particularly compared to his own students. The Franciscans seemed the kind of young men whose idea of wild behaviour was three goblets of ale and staying up past midnight — a stark contrast to some Michaelhouse scholars, whose ways of merrymaking sometimes verged on the criminal.

And the business of the lemons was odd, too. Bartholomew could not recall ever having seen lemons in Cambridge in February before. Mortimer must have paid dearly for such a luxury — from his purse as well as his innards. Bartholomew smiled to himself as he imagined the merchant sitting at his table eating the sour fruits one after the other. Regardless of the amount of fine white sugar he had added, it would not have been a pleasant repast. Bartholomew recalled that Mortimer was the son of a ditcher, and had worked hard to haul himself from his lowly beginnings to his present status. Whatever Mortimer had heard, Bartholomew was certain the King did not devour raw lemons on a regular basis, and it was ironic that, even as Mortimer tried to show the world he was wealthy and accomplished, he betrayed his simple origins by revealing he did not know how to prepare the luxury foods he was able to buy.