There were five tables with benches in the room, suggesting that Eltisley’s trade was good. Two of them were already occupied, one by a group of sullen-looking men who hunched over their beakers in stony silence, and the other by the young people who had laughed at Alcote. Some of the girls wore flowers in their hair, while their beaus had coloured ribbons tied around their waists and wrists. A large, matronly woman sat to one side, sewing, although how she could see in the gloom, Bartholomew could not imagine. It seemed she was acting as a chaperon, for whenever one of the young men moved too close to the girls, she would give him a menacing glare and he would obediently, if reluctantly, back away.
‘Can I fetch you anything?’ asked Eltisley. ‘Wine or ale? Something to eat?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael before anyone else could speak. ‘I could eat a horse – although I would prefer you not to bring me one. A chicken will suffice, or perhaps some mutton. And plenty of bread to mop up the gravy. But no vegetables.’
‘I will inform my wife,’ said Eltisley, hurrying away through a door at the rear of the room.
‘Wauncy said the food was better at the Dog,’ complained Alcote under his breath. ‘What is wrong with you, Michael? Are you losing your taste for fine meals after all the rubbish we have eaten during the journey here?’
‘I am ravenous,’ replied Michael. ‘And I am not prepared to go wandering around in the dark looking for another tavern, when this one is offering hospitality. What I need at the moment is quantity, not quality.’
‘My wife said the food will be with you in a few moments,’ said Eltisley, appearing breathlessly from the kitchens.
‘Good,’ said Michael. He rubbed his hands together and smiled pleasantly at the landlord. ‘There is a chill in the air this evening, Master Eltisley, despite the warmth of the day. It is good to see a fire.’
The landlord beamed an ingratiating smile. ‘In that case I will stoke it up for you, Brother.’
‘That is not necessary,’ said Bartholomew quickly, feeling the room was already too hot for the summer evening. ‘Please do not trouble yourself.’
‘It is no bother,’ said Eltisley, seizing a pair of bellows that would have been more at home in a blacksmith’s furnace than a tavern, and setting to work with considerable enthusiasm. Smoke billowed from the logs as the gigantic bellows did their work, and ashes began to fly everywhere. Michael coughed, flapping at the cinders that circled around his face, while Bartholomew’s eyes began to smart and water.
The young people yelled at Eltisley to leave the fire alone, but the landlord stopped only when one of the handles, probably weakened from years of such abuse, broke with a sharp snap. There was a sigh of relief from all the patrons, and Deynman went to open the door to clear the room of the thick, swirling pall.
‘There,’ said Eltisley, standing back to regard the roaring fire with satisfaction. ‘That should warm the place up. Who opened the door?’
‘I did,’ said Deynman. ‘To let some of the smoke out.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Eltisley, closing it firmly. ‘The flames will create a natural draught that will suck the smoke out of the room within moments. There is no need for doors.’
Coughing dramatically, Deynman went to open it again, but a silent, brooding man, who sat at the table nearest the window stood up threateningly, and Deynman hastily pretended to be inspecting the whitewashed walls instead. When the man took a step toward him, the student scuttled back to his companions, trying to hide behind Bartholomew.
‘But we could be dead in a few moments,’ gasped Michael to Eltisley. ‘Did no one ever tell you that if you allow your patrons to breathe, you are more likely to keep their custom?’
‘Then I will open a window for you,’ said Eltisley reluctantly. ‘That will create a cross-draught but will not allow any of the heat to escape.’
‘This man is a lunatic,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching the landlord in disbelief. ‘Why does he imagine heat will escape through a door, but not a window? And flames do not suck smoke from a room!’
‘Here is the food,’ said Michael, reaching into Bartholomew’s medicine bag for one of his surgical knives, smoke forgotten. ‘What do we have here? Goose, I believe, and duck. And some mutton. What is this scarlet stuff, madam?’
‘Red-currant sauce,’ said Eltisley’s wife, ‘and this is a dish of buttered carrots, simmered in vinegar and honey and then flavoured with cinnamon.’
‘Vegetables,’ said Michael eyeing them in distaste. ‘Never mind those. Where is the bread? And what have you smeared over that delicious meat?’
‘That is hare, fried in white grease with raisins and onions, and garnished with dandelion leaves and cress.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose the greenery can be scraped off,’ sighed Michael in a long-suffering way. He glanced up, and smiled as a serving girl appeared with more dishes. ‘Here comes the bread now. And what is this? Lombard slices! One of my favourites.’
‘What are Lombard slices?’ asked Bartholomew, unused to the rich food over which Michael was drooling.
‘Almonds and breadcrumbs cooked with honey and pepper,’ said the monk contentedly, ‘and served with a syrup of wine, cinnamon and ginger. Delicious! Try some.’
He cut Bartholomew a small piece, and then ate it himself when the physician was slow to claim it, washing it down with a substantial swig of wine.
‘This will be expensive,’ said Alcote anxiously. ‘I hope we will have enough money to pay. The Master’s allowance for travelling was not overly generous.’
‘Everything will be paid for by Sir Thomas,’ said Eltisley graciously. ‘You are Grundisburgh’s guests, and it is our pleasure to ensure you have everything you need. Will there be anything else?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before Michael could ask for more. Eltisley had clearly been ordered to treat them well, and there would be no limits to Michael’s greed unless his colleagues curtailed him.
‘And you must each drink a measure of this before you start,’ said Eltisley, waving a clear glass bottle in which something grainy-looking and black slopped ominously.
‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Just a little potion of my own that aids digestion,’ said Eltisley proudly. ‘I dabble in medicine occasionally – just like you, Doctor – and my remedies and tonics are in great demand in the village.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he ‘dabbled’. ‘And what exactly is in this potion of yours?’
Eltisley tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be revealing a professional secret. I cannot have you stealing my ideas, can I?’
Bartholomew took the bottle from him and sniffed at its contents dubiously. He jerked backward as the sharp odour stung his nose.
‘You expect us to drink that?’ he asked incredulously. ‘It smells like urine and camphor, boiled together until burned.’
Eltisley looked disappointed. ‘The urine of a she-goat,’ he corrected pedantically. ‘Simmered with white starch and camphor, and flavoured with cloves. It is a syrup that is hot and dry in the first degree – according to Galen – and is excellent for diseases of the stomach. I usually make it paler, but I forgot to bank the fire when I cooked it and it ended up a little blackened. But it will work all the same. Drink up!’
‘Galen would never recommend drinking such a concoction,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And neither will I.’
‘Of course he would,’ said Eltisley, pouring the charcoal sludge into some goblets. ‘If you do not drink it, you will pay with dreadful indigestion during the night.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is your cooking so bad?’
‘Matthew!’ snapped Alcote sharply, as Eltisley looked offended. The fussy scholar snatched one of the goblets from the landlord, and had drained it before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘There,’ he said hoarsely, when he could speak again. ‘Now perhaps we can eat in peace.’