‘He did. That was the problem,’ muttered Gray.
‘But you passed, Tom,’ said Bartholomew, looking at his best student. He had certainly not expected Deynman to be successful, but he was disappointed in Gray’s performance. They had discussed trepanation at some length, and Gray should have been able to answer questions about it. Gray was also a consummate liar and was good at twisting people’s words and meanings. He should have excelled in his disputation.
‘I failed,’ said Bulbeck.
Bartholomew closed his eyes and tipped his head back to rest on the wall behind him. His three students were silent, aware that they had let him down, but not certain what they could do to make amends. Bartholomew wondered where he had gone wrong: perhaps he should have done more to curtail the illicit drinking in taverns that had been taking place, or perhaps he should have spent less time on his treatise about fevers and given them additional lessons. Their lack of success would not have been so bad, but the country was in desperate need of trained physicians to replace those who had died during the plague.
‘All the others passed,’ Deynman ventured. ‘It was only us who … did not do so well.’
‘But you, Tom!’ groaned Bartholomew, regarding Bulbeck in despair. ‘I expected better things of you.’
‘I feel ill,’ said Bulbeck in a weak voice. Bartholomew went to his side, and rested a hand on his forehead. He was feverish and looked pale.
‘How long have you been unwell?’ he asked, wondering whether he had put too much pressure on the student, and made him sick from worry.
‘Since midday,’ said Bulbeck. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and put both hands on his stomach, closing his eyes tightly in pain.
‘Have you drunk any wine? Or eaten anything from outside Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, reaching for a cloth with which to wipe Bulbeck’s face.
Bulbeck shook his head. ‘You told us not to,’ he said.
‘You had that cup of water,’ said Gray. ‘From the well.’
‘Water does not count,’ said Deynman disdainfully. ‘Doctor Bartholomew meant that we should not touch foods and wines from outside the College. Water is nothing!’
‘Which well?’ asked Bartholomew, already guessing the answer.
‘The one near the river,’ said Deynman. ‘Winter fever!’ He exclaimed suddenly, pleased with himself. ‘Tom has winter fever!’
Bartholomew could think of no other explanation. Since he had advised people against using the well in Water Lane – on the grounds that the river had somehow invaded it – the number of cases of fever had dropped and only the stubborn or lazy, who ignored his advice, were stricken. Bartholomew supposed that the contagion must increase in still-standing water, because those who drank straight from the river did not seem to catch the sickness. Several, however, were afflicted with other ailments, for which Bartholomew was reasonably certain that the foul, refuse-filled Cam was responsible.
‘I was thirsty,’ said Bulbeck in a small voice. ‘And I forgot what you said about the well. I know you said we were not to eat or drink anything outside Michaelhouse, but I thought a sip of water would not harm me.’
Bartholomew patted his shoulder and went to make up a potion to ease Bulbeck’s stomach cramps. When he returned, Gray and Deynman had put the ailing student to bed and closed the window shutters to keep some of the cold from the room. He saw that Bulbeck finished the medicine, and left the others to watch over him while he slept. Although this particular fever was unpleasant, it was not usually fatal, and Bartholomew was sure Bulbeck would make a full recovery, given rest and a carefully selected diet for a few days.
He closed the door and began to walk across the yard to his own room. He rubbed his eyes as he walked, feeling them dry and sore under his fingers. Then he collided so heavily with someone that he staggered, and almost lost his footing in the slippery mud of the yard.
‘Watch where you are going!’ yelled Langelee, his voice drawing the attention of several scholars who were talking together near the door to the hall.
‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to step round the philosopher, but Langelee stopped him.
‘Sorry?’ he sneered. ‘Is that all?’
‘What more do you want?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
Langelee leaned nearer, and Bartholomew detected a strong odour of wine.
‘It is a disgrace the way you and Brother Michael have leave to come and go all hours of the night,’ he hissed. ‘And I know where you go.’
‘I go to see my patients,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘You can come with me next time if you wish.’ He pushed past Langelee, intending to end the conversation there and then.
‘Maybe I will,’ said Langelee, turning to follow Bartholomew to his room.
‘Fine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will send Cynric for you when I am called.’ He wondered what he had agreed to, but reasoned it might not be a bad thing to have the company of the brawny philosopher – his presence would certainly make opportunistic outlaws think twice before attempting to rob him. But he saw it would be foolish to go out at night – even with Langelee – when there were people who wanted him dead. He had been lured out of the safety of Michaelhouse and attacked while trying to solve other mysteries in the past, and would not allow himself to fall for such an obvious ploy again.
He pushed open the door to his room and threw himself on his bed. He closed his eyes, but opened them again when he sensed the presence of another person.
‘What do you want, Langelee?’ he asked irritably, when he saw the philosopher close the door behind him and gaze around the room speculatively. ‘I am tired and would like to sleep.’
Langelee perched on the edge of the table and crossed his ankles. ‘Sleep? When three of your students have disgraced the College by failing their disputations?’
Bartholomew sat up. ‘Were you one of their examiners?’
Langelee nodded, his face smug. ‘I was assessing their grasp of philosophical issues, and I have never seen such a miserable performance. Even Tom Bulbeck was dreadful, and he is said to be your best student.’
‘He has a fever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have just made him a physic.’
‘I hope you told him to wash his hands before he took it,’ said Langelee with a sneer. ‘If you taught traditional medicine instead of all this cleanliness nonsense they would have passed. All three are quick enough.’
‘Can we discuss this another time?’ asked Bartholomew, refusing to be drawn. If Langelee considered Deynman quick, he must be drunk indeed.
Langelee stared down at him. ‘And why are you so weary? Worn out after a night with your harlot Matilde? I suppose she offers you her services for free. The rest of us pay, of course.’
Bartholomew glared at him, fighting a wild impulse to shove the man backwards through the window. Was there anyone in the College who was not intimately acquainted with his harmless affection for the town’s most exclusive prostitute? He wondered whether his students knew, and the dour Franciscans. But they could not, he reasoned, because Father William would certainly have challenged him about it if they had. He frowned. It was not as if he had anything about which to feel guilty: he and Matilde had never been anything but friends. She had, however, told him that she considered Langelee an attractive man, although looking at the philosopher now, when his pugilistic features were stained red with drink, Bartholomew seriously doubted her good taste.
‘Go away,’ he said, leaning back on the bed again and closing his eyes.
Langelee picked up a scroll from the table and squinted to read it. Bartholomew sighed. So far, he had responded to Langelee’s goading with admirable calm, but his patience was beginning to fray and it would not be long before they ended up arguing. It did not take a genius to deduce that Langelee wanted a fight: his fingers twitched and flexed as if in anticipation of action. But Bartholomew knew who would win such an encounter, and he was not foolish enough to allow himself to be battered to a pulp merely to satisfy Langelee’s abnormal craving for violence.