‘I was told only that three were dead and several injured, including the Chancellor,’ he said impatiently. ‘But I must find Brother Michael.’
Bartholomew hailed Cynric, watching curiously from where he was feeding the chickens outside the hall, and sent him to find Michael. Cynric knew exactly where Michael would be, and within moments the fat monk was puffing across the yard to greet the messenger. He received the news with the same shock as had Bartholomew.
‘But the Bishop keeps a regular patrol on the Ely to Cambridge road. How could such a thing happen?’
The messenger shrugged again. ‘I am telling you only what I know. The Bishop said that you are to go to Ely immediately, and that you are to bring Doctor Bartholomew for the injured.’
‘But Brother Peter at Ely is a fine physician,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why does the Bishop want me?’
The messenger was becoming exasperated at their questions. ‘I do not know! Perhaps the Chancellor asked for you specifically.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘The Chancellor is highly suspicious of Matt’s dedication to cleanliness. Given his own aversion to bathing, I suppose that is not surprising.’
‘We should not waste time,’ said the messenger, squinting up at the sky. ‘We do not want to be caught on the open road tonight, and the riding is hard after all this rain. The Bishop has provided an escort for you – I left them taking refreshments at the Brazen George. By your leave, I will give the Bishop’s message to Master Harling and wait for you in the tavern.’
Michael waved him away and turned to Bartholomew. ‘This is a bad business, but if the Bishop has commanded us to go, we have little choice in the matter. We will miss teaching for a few days. I will inform Master Kenyngham.
‘A few days?’ exclaimed Bartholomew in horror. ‘I cannot leave my students that long! I am already behind with the third years and Gray looks set to fail his disputation–’
‘Then they will just need to work harder when you get back,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Your students are a worthless rabble anyway. None of them will make decent physicians, despite all the attention you have lavished on them.’
‘Bulbeck will,’ said Bartholomew, stung, but Michael was already striding away. Cynric, eyes alight with excitement, offered to pack what they would need and Bartholomew saw that the Welshman intended to accompany them, invited or not.
As he turned to hunt down Gray and Bulbeck, who would need to supervise the other students while he was away, Father Paul stopped him.
‘This has an odd ring to it,’ he said. ‘How could a large party – for the Chancellor never travels without his clerkly retinue – be attacked on the Ely road? And three dead? It sounds excessive!’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘Do you think the messenger is lying?’
Paul pushed out his lower lip. ‘I could not say,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘But I think he is not telling you the whole truth. And why would the Chancellor suddenly ask for you when he has never requested that you attend him before?’
Bartholomew watched Cynric disappear through the door to his room to collect what they would require for the journey. ‘Are you suggesting we should not go?’
Paul shook his head. ‘I am only reiterating what I said to you earlier. Be careful.’ He sketched a benediction in the air above Bartholomew’s head, and took his leave. Bartholomew watched him walk away and then thrust the warning from his mind. He knew from long experience that men brought low by sickness and injury often did or said things out of character, so perhaps Tynkell’s request was not so curious after all. Perhaps he simply wanted a physician from his own University over the Benedictine infirmarian at Ely Abbey.
He found Gray and Bulbeck, his two senior students, playing dice in the room of one of his younger pupils, Rob Deynman. The substantial payments Deynman’s wealthy father made for the training of his barely literate son kept Michaelhouse in bread for at least half the year, and so Bartholomew was stuck with him, despite the fact that Deynman would never pass his disputations. In time, bribes would have to be made, but, in the interim Bartholomew intended to shield the unsuspecting public from the lad’s dubious medical skills for as long as possible.
He told the three students that he had been summoned to Ely and that they would need to supervise the other students’ classes until he returned. He handed Paul’s gold coins to Bulbeck, and issued instructions about the food and medicines for the poor.
‘Are you going to answer the charges of heresy brought against you for your theories about river water?’ asked Deynman, his eyes wide with interest. Gray was unable to prevent a muffled explosion of mirth at Deynman’s bluntness.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is about another matter.’
‘Not the business of Armel and the poison?’ asked Gray.
‘What do you know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
Gray glanced furtively at his friends. ‘Nothing much. We heard that Xavier dragged you away from the feast and that Armel was poisoned. The story was all over the Brazen George last night.’
‘Was it now?’ said Bartholomew, eyebrows raised. ‘And how do you know? Surely you did not break College rules and slip out to visit a tavern while all the Fellows were at the installation?’
Gray flushed red and Bulbeck shuffled his feet around in the rushes.
‘Oh no!’ said Deynman, grinning cheerfully. ‘We went out long before that.’ The others gave him crushing looks. ‘What?’ Deynman demanded of them, oblivious of the implications of his reply. He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘We saw old Sacks selling Armel the wine, though.’
‘What?’ said Bartholomew, looking from one student to the other, confused. ‘Old Sacks?’
‘Sacks claims to be a Crécy veteran,’ said Gray reluctantly, still glaring at Deynman. ‘He is called Sacks because that is what he does – he makes sacks for flour and suchlike. He is often in the George, selling bits and pieces.’
‘Often?’ enquired Bartholomew casually.
Gray winced, caught out a second time.
Bulbeck gave Gray a withering glance and continued. ‘Sometimes he sells ribbons and laces, such as a chapman might have. Sometimes pots and pans. But recently he has had wine.’
‘My brother once bought a lute from him,’ said Deynman, eager to take part in the conversation, ‘but another student told him it had been stolen from Master Colton of Gonville Hall. We took it round to Gonville and the Master identified it as his, although all he did to reward us for our honesty was threaten to tell you that we had been drinking in the town’s taverns. So we never buy anything from Sacks because whatever he sells is bound to be stolen.’
‘Of course, Armel and his friends were not to know that,’ said Gray in a superior tone. ‘That bunch of nuns never break the University rules. They came to the George yesterday for the first time ever – can you believe it when the tavern is only next door to their hostel? – and fell for Sacks’s patter.’
‘Then why did you not warn them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it was uncharitable to allow them to buy potentially stolen goods?’
‘They are from Bernard’s,’ said Deynman with high indignation. ‘A hostel! Had they been Michaelhouse students, it would have been different.’
‘And it was only wine,’ said Gray, grinning at Deynman. He sobered suddenly as he thought about it. ‘Except it was not, was it?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘It was not. What of Sacks? Has he a grudge against students?’