Susanna GREGORY: A Bone of Contention

‘Then do not think about it, Matt,’ said Michael complacently, squinting to where the last rays of the sun glinted red and gold through the trees. ‘There are some things to which we will never know the answers. Perhaps this is one of them.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘It is encouraging to see that Michaelhouse supports a tradition of enquiring minds,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Just because an answer is not immediately obvious does not mean to say that we should not look for it.’

‘And sometimes, looking too hard hides the very truth that you seek,’ said Michael, equally firmly. ‘I can even cite you an example. My Junior Proctor, Guy Heppel, lost the keys to our prison cells yesterday.

I spent the entire period between prime and terce helping him search for them – a task rendered somewhat more urgent by the fact that Heppel, rather rashly, had arrested the Master of Maud’s Hostel for being drunk and disorderly.’

‘You mean Thomas Bigod?’ asked Bartholomew, between shock and amusement. ‘I am not surprised you were so keen to find the keys! I cannot see that a man like Bigod would take kindly to being locked up with a crowd of recalcitrant students.’

‘You are right – he was almost beside himself with fury once he awoke and discovered where he was. But we digress. I searched high and low for these wretched keys, and even went down on my hands and knees to look for them in the rushes – no mean feat for a man of my girth – and do you know where they were?’

‘Round his neck, I should imagine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is where he usually keeps them, tied on a thong of catgut or some such thing.’

Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘He had me going through the same process last week when he came to see me about his cough.’

‘Is it genuine, then, this cough of his? I thought he was malingering. The man seems to have a different ache or pain almost every day – some of them in places I would have imagined impossible.’

‘The cough is real enough, although the other ailments he lists – and, as you say, it is quite a list – are more imagined than real. Anyway, when I told him he must have lost his keys in the High Street, and not in my room, he almost fainted away from shock. He had to lie down to calm himself, and when I loosened his clothes, there were the keys around his neck. I was surprised when he was appointed your junior. He is not the kind of man the University usually employs as a proctor.’

‘All brawn and no brain you mean?’ asked Michael archly, knowing very well how most scholars regarded those men who undertook the arduous and unpopular duties as keepers of law and order in the University.

‘Present company excepted, of course. But poor Guy Heppel has neither brawn nor brain as far as I can see.’

‘Why was he appointed then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see how he could defend himself in a tavern fight, let alone prevent scholars from killing each other.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael, picking idly at a spot of spilled food on his habit. ‘He was a strange choice, especially given that our Michaelhouse colleague, Father William, wanted the appointment – he has more brawn than most of the University put together, although I remain silent on the issue of brain.’

‘That cough of Heppel’s,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as he changed the conversation to matters medical. ‘It reminds me of the chest infection some of the plague victims contracted. It…’

Michael leapt to his feet in sudden horror, startling a blackbird that had been exploring the long grass under a nearby plum tree. It flapped away quickly, wings slapping at the undergrowth. ‘Not the Death, Matt! Not again! Not so soon!’

Bartholomew shook his head quickly, motioning for his friend to relax. ‘Of course not! Do you think I would be sitting here chatting with you if I thought the plague had returned? No, Brother, I was just remarking that Heppel’s chest complaint is similar to one of the symptoms some plague victims suffered – a hacking, dry cough that resists all attempts to soothe it. I suppose I could try an infusion of angelica…’

As Bartholomew pondered the herbs that he might use to ease his patient’s complaint, Michael flopped back down on the tree trunk clutching at his chest.

‘Even after four years the memory of those evil days haunts me. God forbid we should ever see the like of that again.’

Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘And if it does, we physicians will be no better prepared to deal with it than we were the first time. We discovered early on that incising the buboes only worked in certain cases, and we never learned how to cure victims who contracted the disease in the lungs.’

‘What was he like, this martyr, Simon d’Ambrey?’ interrupted Michael abruptly, not wanting to engage in a lengthy discussion about the plague so close to bedtime. Firmly, he forced from his mind the harrowing recollections of himself and Bartholomew trailing around the town to watch people die, knowing that if he dwelt on it too long, he would dream about it. Bartholomew was not the only one who had been shocked and frustrated by his inability to do anything to combat the wave of death that had rolled slowly through the town. The monk flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles with nasty popping sounds, and settled himself back on the tree trunk. ‘I have heard a lot about Simon d’Ambrey, but I cannot tell what is truth and what is legend.’

Bartholomew considered for a moment, reluctantly forcing medical thoughts from his mind, and heartily wishing that there was another physician in Cambridge with whom he could discuss his cases – the unsavoury Robin of Grantchester was more butcher than surgeon, while the other two University physicians regarded Bartholomew’s practices and opinions with as much distrust and scepticism with which he viewed theirs.

‘Simon d’Ambrey was a kindly man, and helped the poor by providing food and fuel,’ he said. ‘The stories that he was able to cure disease by his touch are not true – as far as I can remember these stories surfaced after his death. He was not a rich man himself, but he was possessed of a remarkable talent for persuading the wealthy to part with money to finance his good works.’

Michael nodded in the gathering dusk. ‘I heard that members of his household were seen wearing jewellery that had been donated to use for the poor. Personally, I cannot see the harm in rewarding his helpers. Working with the poor is often most unpalatable.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘Spoken like a true Benedictine! Collect from the rich to help the poor, but keep the best for the abbey.’

‘Now, now,’ said Michael, unruffled. ‘My point was merely that d’Ambrey’s fall from grace seems to have been an over-reaction on the part of the town. He made one mistake, and years of charity were instantly forgotten. No wonder the townspeople believe him to be a saint! It is to ease their guilty consciences!’

‘There may be something in that,’ said Bartholomew.

He paused, trying to recall events that had occurred twenty-five years before. ‘On the day that he died, rumours had been circulating that he had stolen from the poor fund, and then, at sunset, he came tearing into town chased by soldiers. He always wore a green cloak with a gold cross on the back and he had bright copper-coloured hair, so everyone knew him at once.

As the soldiers gained on him, he drew a dagger and turned to face them. I saw an archer shoot an arrow, and d’Ambrey fell backwards into the Ditch.’

‘It is very convenient for Thorpe that his body was never found,’ observed Michael.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘A search was made, of course, but the Ditch was in full flood and was flowing dangerously fast. There were stories that he did not die, and that he was later seen around the town. But I have seen similar throat wounds since then on battlefields in France, and every one proved fatal.’